Dreams are fleeting
by And The Adversary Succeeds
Summary: How was the hunt- the dreaded night- to end? Of all the outcomes the hunter entertained, the reality was drastically different. The reach of the Great Ones is not so easily evaded, and even in another world, governed by a shattered moon, their shadow persists. Though dreams are fleeting, nightmares are notoriously loath to wane.


_A/N: Okay, so there's going to be some AU shenanigans going on here. Apart from what's to be expected given this is a crossover, of course. Rather than go into heavy detail, I'll just let you see what I mean._

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1: An End

The crying had ceased.

Silence, palpable and dreadful as the ever present stare of the moon's light, swept across the ruined pavilion in a funereal totality. A fell wind that drenched all it touched in the somber, and oh so bittersweet embrace of… Of…

The hunter had long since become a sort of partner with death. At first, she had treated it as a foe, as nearly all living things did. It was the nature of life to seek its continuance after all, and even man, with their so-called heightened intelligence and perception of the world around them, were but slaves to this atavistic call. She herself had dedicated her life to.. well, a fool might have said quelling death's inevitable grasp, but in reality she had but held its icy fingers at bay whenever she managed. Yet here, in this blood drenched nightmare, the hunter had found herself not an enemy any longer, but rather a partner. She danced with it, in tune to its awful keening. Perhaps this, too, was but an example of her need to resist it. Perhaps. She did not wish to dwell for long upon the possible ramifications; the sinister insinuations that murmured in the recesses of her mind.

This, however, was different. She felt it in her very bones. As the final whispers of the infant's mewls faded, carried on the wings of a chilled wind, she felt a horror that had not gripped her so tightly since falling into this dream for the first time. It crept up her spine, squeezing her gut tightly, and as she opened her mouth to breathe.. the hunter was shocked by what came instead. A choked, abrupt sob tore from her throat. It sounded much like a beast's bark, and she quickly clamped her jaw shut tight, hardening her green eyes. Eyes which had once been like verdant fields, bright and brimming with vigor, now faded and dull with the weight of what she had seen.

The sensation passed, and was replaced swiftly by another feeling. One with a similar, yet altogether more wicked connotation. One which she was terribly inclined to _not_ heed for the sole purpose of avoiding its ghostly promises. This was a truly evil whisper, coiling itself in the back of her mind and trickling such diabolical poisons into her being. She.. _wanted_ to listen, she so desperately _craved_ to believe what it said. Even so, it would be foolish. Dangerous. Because of all the clamoring thoughts that rang within her head, this one suggested with a cloying, nearly artificial sweetness, that it was over.

That this was the end.

The hunter looked about, eying the scattered remains of hundreds of bodies. This was a charnel. An open air mausoleum. She could fathom, if she wanted, all the myriad ways these skeletal remnants might have come to be here, but that would be pointless. The shadowy thing was gone, vanquished, and that was, as they say, _that_. Gathering up her wits about her as if she were packing disheveled belongings into a bag, the hunter turned her eyes to the lantern which had sprung up in the middle of the pavilion.

Hand gripped tight atop her cane, she holstered her sidearm, freeing a hand to straighten the top hat resting on her crown, and reclaimed some semblance of propriety. Self possession which she told herself meant she was very much still human. Denial or not, she needed to hold onto that. These last dregs of what- no, _who_ she was. The firearm, accompanied by another weapon, were soothing weights; reminders that she was not necessarily alone in this night. The hunter had long since ceased worrying over the thought of viewing her weapons as companions. They were, after all, her closest allies in this struggle. Her cane preceded her, crunching through discarded bones, and she followed at a dignified gait; cape, coat, and jabot fluttering idly in the wind.

The lantern burst to life at her touch, the gnarled figures of the messengers writhing up around it, tiny arms outstretched towards her; welcoming, as if beckoning to an old friend. The hunter knelt, and envisioned her destination. The lantern's haunting glow enveloped her in its cold light. The sensation which had proved so alien at first wrapped itself around her, stealing the breath from her lungs as the world simply.. stopped. It began again but a heartbeat later, just appearing around her as if it had never left. Even if she was somewhere entirely different now. Somewhere.. reassuring. Safe, even. At least, that was what she told herself. It was an assumption, but one she dared to entertain. One of very few, as of late.

One that shattered like a mirror the moment she rose to her feet.

Something _felt_ wrong. There was no other way to describe it. It was an instinct, one she had honed across the course of this accursed night. Typically it preceded bloodshed, and she immediately swept her eyes about studiously, searching her refuge, her-

"Welcome home, good hunter," a feathery soft voice, with its peculiar lilt, brushed against her ear.

The hunter's eyes widened. How had.. how had she missed it? How could she have _possibly_ let such a drastic change go unnoticed. The workshop was aflame! Her heart thundered, pumping adrenaline through her veins, her grip shifted on her cane in an instant, brandishing it as a weapon. It was more than a mere conscious motion, by now it had become an automatic response to even a potential threat. It was as if the cane itself leapt within her grasp, twisting its body to a readied position of its own accord. Her oldest friend in this dream, ever at her beck and call.

The Doll appeared unperturbed by the crackling conflagration just beyond her, painted eyes staring directly at the hunter who briskly approached, wary for whatever might have caused this fire. For a time now she had grown wary of the strange thing, ever since stepping into that nightmare. Ever since encountering.. _her_. Even if the hunter had since donned vestments very much like those the woman had worn. She opened her mouth, queries readied on the tip of her tongue, but found herself cut off. Perhaps sensing what she was about to ask, the Doll directed her gaze over the hunter's shoulder. Beyond the tombstones, towards the silvery gate. No other words were exchanged, the hunter immediately setting off at a hurried, though reasonably cautious pace. Her senses strained to pick up any signs of foes, but none appeared. No beasts, no Kin, no.. none of the _things_ that she had since predated upon.

Everything aside from the fire was as it had always appeared, and beyond the fence the hunter found herself in a most disarmingly idyllic setting. Before her lay a field of white flowers intersected by a simple dirt path. Headstones littered this.. graveyard? The worrying notion slipped across her mind, _Just who had been buried here_? A nagging fear clawed at her soul, a fear she tempered rather than callously shrugging off. Breathing deeply, the hunter stepped through the gate. Here, even the fire seemed to disappear; everything was quiet. All was still.

It set her on edge, impossibly so, but the hunter pressed onward. Beautiful as it was, this field of alabaster petals was somehow the most foreboding sight she had ever witnessed. It only took a moment before she noticed that she was not alone. Her other companion in the dream, Gehrman, was seated in his wheelchair at the base of an enormous tree, a large slab clad in thick ivy just at his back. The moon hung behind the tree's twisted moss cloaked bark, suspended amidst the vast sea of clouds, interspersed as it was with towering pillars that disappeared beyond the thick veil. Her brow knit upon finding the old man. His garb had changed. He looked much more.. well, oddly funereal. Sporting a top hat and cape, the withered figure possessed all the charm of an undertaker.

Her lips tight and eyes dark, the hunter approached him with as even a carriage as she could manage. Gehrman had always come off as a touch odd, but never had she thought of him as an enemy before. Yet here, in this sprawling garden of stone, she was overcome by an all too familiar apprehension. Like the world was holding its breath, and her body had become a spring wretchedly tightened in preparation to burst forth. Halting mere feet from the old man, she dipped her head in a terse, silent greeting. There was a question in her posture, and a dark intent welling in the deeps of her eyes.

Gehrman smiled; a thin, but otherwise harmless expression. Perhaps she was supposed to take it as comforting, but if anything it only set her more on edge. "Good hunter, you've done well" he began, his sanguine tone striking the hunter as tired.. and rehearsed, "The night is near its end."

"'Near'?" The hunter's incredulous query had left her lips before her mind had even registered a desire to speak. Her voice sounded rough. Hoarse. Unused. It almost made her falter, hearing herself like that. The night had surely taken its toll on her, she was all too aware, but that.. there was something truly disheartening about how ragged her voice sounded.

Gerhman chuckled, nodding slowly. "You pursued your prey admirably, yes. And so, here we are, at the cusp of dawn. Now, I will show you mercy."

The hunter took an involuntary step back, eyes narrowed into daggers. "What.. sort of 'mercy'.. is this to be?" She forced out, the strain of pushing her scarcely employed vocal chords feeling like sandpaper raking across her throat.

The old man nodded again, with the same torpidity as before. Now, she noticed, there was an odd resignation in his stare. She could not place it, but it appeared neither cruel nor malicious. It was almost sad. For but a second her guard relaxed, until he spoke again. "You will die, forget the dream, and awake under the morning sun. You will be freed.. from this terrible hunter's dream."

This time, when the hunter took a step away, it was of her own volition. Confusion flashed across her face, followed by betrayal, and fear, before settling ultimately on anger. Her lips peeled back over her teeth, much like a wolf bearing its fangs in warning. A fire ignited in her belly, scorching its way up her throat as she grit her teeth against the sudden fury that suffused her so thoroughly. After everything she had endured, all that had been accomplished, _this_ was her reward? To die?! Gerhman spoke of freedom, of waking, but how could she trust his word? All that she had seen, everything she had learned during this horrid night, had primed her against the unknown. She had learned all too well that what she did not know was _exceedingly_ capable of doing more than merely harming her.

Her eyes flashed to the headstones dotting the field, breaking through the flowers without any hint of order. Many were so old they had crumbled or collapsed, and more than before she became aware of _just how many_ there were. Alarms rang in her skull, and her fixed her ferocious stare on the old man. "No," she hissed, taking another step back. The hunter gripped her cane like a lifeline, knuckles surely going bone white beneath her gloves. "I'll not.. submit to this ' _mercy_ '!" She spat, venom coating her coarse voice. These were all hunters, weren't they? All of them.. how many nights had this cycle been repeated? How many had walked the same path as she, only to be granted the same gift in return for their efforts? How many had succeeded only to slip forever into a gloaming bed, never to rouse again? Her mind raced manically, awash with feverish notions of treachery.

Gehrman spoke of 'waking', yet she had no intention of risking such a promise.

The codger chuckled again, this time with a morose shake of his head. "Dear oh dear, what was it? The hunt, the blood, or the horrible dream?" The query reeked of rhetoric, and his tone carried traces of pity. As if he were addressing a rabid dog. It made the hunter's blood boil. Gehrman took note of her incensed state, and gave her another small smile. "Oh, it doesn't matter." Then, surprisingly, he stood from his wheelchair. Gradually, carefully, the old man steadied himself on both feet as he rose to his full imposing height. Thin as he looked, there was something detestably threatening about him. It had little to do with the physical, but rather it was something he _radiated_. A powerful, undeniable wave of fear rolled from the old man's form.

"It always comes down to the hunters' helper to clean up after these sorts of messes," he continued, though she had the distinct impression Gehrman was no longer addressing her. It sounded very much like he was thinking aloud at this point, for whose benefit she could not tell. Gehrman reached to his side, fingers curling 'round the hilt of a large curved blade. Had that always been there? The hunter blinked, her free hand drifting towards the weapon sheathed at her side. In a sudden burst of speed, the old man whisked the blade around, and she caught the undeniable sound of a mechanism triggering. A handle sprung up over his shoulder, which he immediately caught. The sword now jutted out from behind him, and from its new position, coupled with the extended haft… The hunter's suspicions were confirmed as Gehrman lifted the weapon over his shoulder, taking hold of the scythe in both hands.

"Tonight," his eyes drifted to the heavens, before sinking like stones to meet the hunter's own, "Gehrman joins the hunt..."

He moved in the space of a breath, surging forth and swinging the scythe in a terrible arc. The hunter swept out her cane, smashing it into the scythe's haft, and dashed toward her foe. Her left hand unsheathed the blade at her side, drawing it out in a wide slash, aiming for the old man's stomach. It caught naught but air as the old man moved aside, avoiding the Reiterpallasch's biting edge. The hunter pressed the momentary advantage, lunging and thrusting with a frenzied zeal. The so called 'advantage' was shorter lived than she would have liked, and Gerhman swiftly drove her back with a whirling sweep of his scythe. The force of the weapon's swing caused the flowers to ripple, disturbing the otherwise peaceful bed of untainted petals.

With a flick of the wrist she felt the cane's rigid body give way, and reversed her grip with a graceful flourish. Not one to be driven back without answering in kind, the hunter loosed the trick weapon in a maddened flurry, raking the air with its teeth; like a monstrous tongue lapping desperately for a taste of crimson drink. The tail end would catch on dirt, flinging soil, or spark against stone in its quest for blood.

She had faced many hunters during the night, and had quickly grown accustomed to killing those who had lost themselves in their frenzy. They were not matches of wit and honor, but rather encounters between slavering predators. There were no rules, no codes, nothing beyond the lust for blood and the will to live. Giving into one's animal instincts had its advantages, so long as you did not become lost. Even so, for all the times she had to put down a hunter who had succumbed to their baser nature, those confrontations barely measured to what she now faced. This duel was its own instance entirely, against an opponent whose mere presence was like a weapon in itself.

They danced among the flowers, darting between the headstones, exchanging blows with blinding speed. Gehrman's apparent age aside, the hunter was quite convinced that _she_ was the frailer of the two. She made use of her agile build and honed reflexes, dashing and dodging between fell sweeps and plunging swipes. If the scythe's blade caught her, she doubted she would be able to recover – should she survive the initial bite at all. Gehrman's every move was drenched in an uncanny power, his skeletal appearance concealing the strength that guided his weapon. A thew that would surely cleave her in two if given the chance. Yet, under the sway of bravery or stupidity, she maintained her offense by keeping dangerously within the scythe's reach, following the strikes and staying ever just out of reach. A hairsbreadth away from doom.

The hunter's speed permitted quick cuts, fleeting lashes, and shallow thrusts. None of which fazed the wiry reaper. The meager amounts of blood she drew did nothing to slow his assault, though it did stir something within her. Something primal, something bestial, and something she dared _not_ nourish. Not so long as she could resist, at least.

Beneath the haze of battle a voice continued to murmur. A trace of control that whispered advice, telling her when to harry, and when to relent; to punish distance, and exploit contiguity. Little by little she whittled away, aiming for openings, muscle and tendon, wearing her opponent down as long as her stamina remained. Though extensive, her supply was exhaustible, but that knowledge served to drive her onward. The better she employed her strikes, the more likely she could secure victory.

One quick way to endure the chilling sting of death- even temporary as it had yet been in the clutches of the dream- was to grow complacent. To let oneself become too familiar with how any enemy fought. This was a lesson she had learned _very_ early on in the night. Gascoigne, a mighty hunter in his own right, had become.. warped before she struck the killing blow. The abrupt change had caught her off guard, and the good Father was by no means the last prey to upturn the playing field before the fight was finished. She had been anticipating something from Gehrman, anything that might throw her off balance. Otherwise, the hunter may not have noticed quickly enough when he detached the blade from the haft, wielding the curved length of steel like a sword.

While the scythe granted considerable momentum behind his strikes, it had come at a cost. His blows were just slow enough, needing the time to build up speed or redirect a blow when the strike missed its mark. Now, the old man was not so encumbered. While still a large blade, all things considered, its design made it much easier to chain blow upon blow in rapid succession. She felt the first burning marks on her flesh as she evaded, the very edge of the razor sharp weapon effortlessly cutting through her raiments and drawing warm, red ichor from her flesh. Steel rang out, the piercing sound shrill and crisp across the flowers. This tactic did not inherently deny her openings, forcing her instead to make them herself. She deflected his blade with fluid swings, lunging through his attacks while one armament kept his sword at bay. Furthermore, ceding ground would open up the chance for him to put his own sidearm to work. The barrel of his blunderbuss was angled precipitously, and the last thing she wanted was to make herself the perfect target for its broad scope.

The hunter was as equally relentless as her prey, even if she did not possess his raw strength. Yet, her philosophy of maintaining an attack as long as possible was not without its drawbacks – many, in fact, which were beginning to increase in number. Gehrman was certainly aware of this, perhaps seeking to wear her down with a legion of smaller blows. A sound plan, but one that would require time to take root. If it were not for a misstep. The hunter feinted, seeking to draw an attack, when her footing slipped. Loose soil and stones gave way beneath her boot, and though she caught herself on her cane, it presented the perfect opportunity for her enemy. She flung herself back, away from the blade, but not swiftly enough to avoid it entirely. The keen edge cut through the flesh of her face like paper, drawing blood and a stifled grunt of pain.

She lost hold of her cane as she tumbled back, rolling with the momentum of the blow. Never had she felt as much like a beast as she did then, on hand and knees on the ground, sword reared back to strike. Her heart thundered in her hears. Blood trickled leisurely down her jaw, dripping onto the once pristine white frills of her jabot. She readied herself, watching the next attack as it came, the curve of the sword approaching in a downward arc. At the last second she launched forward, a ferocious roar tearing at her throat. The wild thrust sank into Gehrman, just above his right hip.

The old man held his composure, sweeping at her with his blade, forcing her back. She drew her sidearm with her free hand, firing a twin volley of quicksilver from the ornate repeating pistol. Gehrman dashed away, but not before one round found purchase in his side. He stumbled, and the hunter kicked off the ground, throwing her entire body into another powerful thrust. The moonlight glinting off his blunderbuss caught her eye, and she dropped flush with the ground just in time, the net of quicksilver shot filling the space her body had just occupied.

At this point both were like animals in a corner, lashing out and evading with manic abandon. A veritable stalemate that achieved nothing, aside from wearing on both hunters. Until, quite surprisingly, Gehrman jumped, propelling himself into the air. Scythe once again in his hand, the gaunt frame of the ancient man hung like a specter against the awful light of the moon. He raised the reaping tool high, and with a cry he swung the blade. The air rippled, and the hunter dove aside just before the wave of intangible force smashed into the ground like a whirlwind, tearing into the earth; the impact would have almost certainly killed her, or maimed at the very least.

Rolling onto her feet, she sprinted for her cane, holstering her pistol as she ran. She heard Gehrman land behind her, the impacts of his boots as he gave chase. Her target lay but feet away, and she slid the last few feet, grabbing the cane and twisting her body around to lash out with the whip. Gehrman recoiled, the unfurling steel fangs sparking against the readied blade of his scythe.

"You must accept your death," he placidly informed, as calmly as if he were requesting a cup of tea, and stepped forward to attack.

The hunter ducked under his swing, tucking her body low as she spun around, the scythe's edge singing through the air just above her head. The hunter unfurled her body in a forward lunge, arms uncrossing in outwardly opposing swings, whip and blade equally seeking flesh to rend. Neither landed, but she pressed onward, tucking her arms back in a reverse stroke. She employed the momentum to twist herself around, propelling her sword over her elbow in a hasty thrust. Again the tip sank into flesh, but this time the bite went deep. In the instant the sword was anchored, she triggered its secondary function. The Reiterpallasch barked, spitting a blast of quicksilver that knocked Gehrman back, tearing him off the blade.

The hunter swung her cane, the jagged length coiling around the old man's throat, and with a mighty heave she reeled him in, constricting the biting coil, and forced him back onto the waiting edge of her sword. She thrust to meet him, putting her weight behind the blow, and sheathed the steel in his chest. It missed his heart, but she hadn't exactly been aiming for it. She fired again, and the cane tightened around his throat when his body jerked back in response. Blood splattered against her, warm and pungent, fanning the flame roaring inside of her. She yanked the cane again, bringing Gehrman to his knees. Dark, crimson rivers streamed down his neck, staining the cane's fangs.

A choked, sputtering laugh escaped the old man's lips, speckling them with blood. He grinned at her, the spark in his eye goading her on. _The hunter must finish its prey_ , the look seemed to whisper. The corner of the hunter's mouth curled in a silent snarl, and she planted a boot on the old man's chest, keeping him steady as she dragged her blade free. The sound of slicing flesh cut across the field, painting the flowers beneath them a vibrant red as blood began to freely pour from the unobstructed wound. The hunter rooted her feet firmly on the ground, closed her eyes, and with a flash of her blade she emptied her foe's insides. Blood sprayed as his guts were freed, coating her body in a rejuvenating shower of the precious life-giving liquid, relief coursing through her as wounds began to mend.

Gehrman's eyes went wide. Then, slowly, a mask of calm spread across his ancient features; the lights fading from his eyes as his entrails poured out onto the earth. A wet, gargled breath rattled in his throat, and then he slumped. Dead, at last.

The hunter's body was rigid, her muscles taught; the fire still burned in her gut, the need to carve, to crush, to kill, to _hunt_ was alive in her veins. It flooded her being to the core, fanning the starving flames to greater heights. She could almost see the embers rising, drifting through her form, set to ignite wherever they came to rest, spreading the burning need to sate her thirst.

Her eyes snapped open, accompanied by a long, shuddering breath. She gasped for air, wresting control of her mind, of her own body, back from the primal desires which had infested her during the night. The side effect of the awful hunt, one of many she had begrudgingly become accustomed to. Consciously, this acclimation was born largely from necessity. If she did _not_ learn to treat these symptoms with care, the results would be fittingly catastrophic. She steadied her gaze on the sky, on the moon shining high above, placing all of her willpower onto just _letting go_. The moon gazed back, or.. so it seemed. A great and terrible eye, judging her for all she had done; for what she had become. Be it the product of need or her own failings, neither mattered in the end. The hunt had, for better or worse, changed her.

Though she was exceedingly certain it was mostly not for her benefit.

Only once she had reclaimed her senses did she permit her eyes to slip down to the empty husk in front of her, still bound by the length of her cane. Her brow furrowed as she studied what had, mere minutes ago, been another living man. Another hunter. Someone she had believed, be it for her own sake or not, that she could trust. He looked, she supposed, at peace. There was neither horror nor anger etched onto his unmoving features, but instead a look of supreme calm. Contentment.

Then.. came the guilt; an unbidden burden. The poisonous tongue at her ear, pondering if she had made the right decision. What if Gehrman _had_ been able to free her? To grant her a reprieve from the dream? Had she just slain him purely for fear? Or.. had she done it because she too was falling victim to the call of the blood? Perhaps _that_ had been the true reasoning behind his ploy, to put her down before she became like Gascoigne, and so many others who had not been strong enough in the end.

 _No_ , she told herself, rigidly shaking her head, _Then he would not have been so quick to attack. His belligerence spoke ill of his intent; his true machinations._

"Whatever they were," she breathed, sighing softly. With a flourish and a metallic crack the whip came free from the corpse's neck and returned to its prior rigid state. She sheathed the Reiterpallasch after wiping it on her coat, and… Stopped. She was unsure of what to do. Would she be forced to hunt forevermore? To enter a nightmare which she could never escape? To be honest, it already felt very much like she was imprisoned in an unending labyrinth of torment. It was not so far a-

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and her ears perked up as.. as they caught wind of _something_. It had been.. faint, but she doubted it was her imagination. It had been distinct, and had not come from the workshop still smoldering behind her. She remained absolutely still, closing her eyes and focusing entirely on what she could hear, letting all else fade into white noise. Inconsequential; mere distractions. Time drifted by, no longer counted, until she heard it again. It was distant, and crisp. Like something snapping. She had heard similar sounds throughout the night. Usually bone, cracking and giving way – be it hers or her prey's.

It rang out again a moment later, much more quickly than before. Followed by another, then another. Her concerns shifted from the frequency of the noises, quickly giving way to the number, then the intensity. They were definitely growing louder, closer, and far more numerous. Cracking and splintering, the sound of something rigid breaking under tremendous duress. The hunter opened her eyes, casting them about, searching for any sign of the source. However, no matter where she looked, the hunter saw nothing. The dream looked as it.. well, as it had since she returned from slaying the winged phantasm atop that sepulchral loft.

The truest, and most worrisome, warning came as the ground began to _shake_.

The hunter braced herself, feet spread apart and dug into the blood drenched dirt. Her heart was thundering violently, and her mind raced with a thousand different fears and half-formed horrors. She made her way back toward the burning edifice of the workshop, yet just before reaching the gate everything.. moved. The ground beneath her shifted, and she observed in disbelief as her surroundings began to tip, the great tree groaned as gravity pulled at its boughs, now looming over her as the world started to simply _fall_. Tumbling, almost at a snail's pace, until the hunter was staring up at the field of flowers. The dream, the precipice within the endless sky, had upended entirely, to the chorus of fracturing stone. Wind whipped her, stinging and cold, as she fell towards…

Nothing.

Her eyes went wide, neck craned to see over her shoulder, observing the vast emptiness awaiting her. The shadow of the dream- the island teetering above the void- swallowed her well before the unending maw below heedlessly consumed the speck racing headlong into its embrace.

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 _A/N: Eh, fuck it, that'll do. I initially wanted to make this a bit longer, but I'm lazy and I don't mind using cliffhangers every now and then._


End file.
